


the touch of your hands is like footprints in snow

by fabulouslarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, New Year's Eve, New York City, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabulouslarry/pseuds/fabulouslarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is planning to be alone when he watches the New Years event in NYC, but that simply isn't the case.</p><p>or<br/>the one where Harry drops his keys on the floor</p>
            </blockquote>





	the touch of your hands is like footprints in snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CJune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJune/gifts).



> I had so much fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy. This prompt was fab

Harry sighs as he gracefully puts his hat on, as graceful as a person with hands as big as his can, but leaves strands free of hair to frame his face. He sighs again as he watches his flatmate, Zayn, slip into rather extravagant shoes, with his foot on the wooden table and buckles hanging loose before being fastened. It. was enough to give an image of a model on some kind of high designer brand advert.

_Watch out Chanel, Zayn is coming your way._

Zayn Malik is handsome, more like a dream then reality in fact, something that has never changed since Harry met him at university a few years ago. The features on his face looked like they had been put there by some supernatural force, determined (and successful) in making him beautiful. Everything about him screams attraction, his appearance, his body language and his habits. Even when Zayn smokes it seems to set people on edge.

On the other hand, Harry considers himself to be average. He was tall, sure, but the blemishes on his face made him far from perfect. His hair was growing out gradually, and the beanie kept his curls (or waves these days) under control where possible. He wouldn’t consider himself to be Zayn standard at all, brilliant eyes and domineering- only looks good on Zayn- stubble, just another stranger to blend into the background. Of course, people like his relatives, especially his mum, disagreed with his insecurities.

Of course, they had to because they were his family.

Harry was lucky, actually, to have Zayn as a flatmate, because they were best friends currently, and Zayn being oh so perfect secured him being a great friend. They knew everything about each other, and could talk about things together that would make others run.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the event?” Harry asks in a desperate plea to get Zayn to go so he isn’t alone. Although Harry didn’t mind being alone at all, it really would be much better with Zayn there to stand by his side. 

Zayn is persistent. “No, I’m sorry mate. It is just too cold and you are crazy, in a nice way obviously.”

It’s true, it is too cold, matching England with similar weather. Harry has bundled himself up in knitwear and a coat, along with boots covering fluffy socks. The scarf and mittens really just finish the outfit off, and Harry really looks like he may be covering up too much, or that he is trying to imitate a bear. But Harry doesn’t mind the cold weather at all, he just wants to watch the NYC New Year’s Eve event. He really, times infinity, wants to.

Ever since Harry was younger, 10 years old to be precise, he had wanted to spend winter in New York, a city far away from his childhood in the quiet surroundings of Holmes Chapel. He remembers seeing his aunt’s pictures from her trip at Christmas time, and falling in love. He wanted to experience lights and snow and walks whilst covered up along busy roads. It was all he had ever wanted, and going to the famous New Year’s Eve event in Times Square just really summed everything up.

He came to New York quite recently with Zayn, only seven months ago. It was all done quickly, the process of moving. Harry managed two jobs on the side, singing at clubs and bars (singing being the thing he was good at and wanted to pursue), and work waitressing in a restaurant, while Zayn worked in media management and slowly working himself up. It paid the bills. That was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things.

He never really understood why his friends would prefer partying over an event just like this, but he put it down to just personal taste. It was like how their other friend Niall, an Irish fellow who lived only a few roads away, preferred girls while Harry and Zayn quite liked boys. Same thing really, he guesses.

In reality it’s not, not even closely signifying the difference, but that was how Harry’s mind worked.

Zayn straightens himself up, eyeing himself in the small mirror on the wall, and smiles in satisfaction. Harry wonders how he makes it seems so effortless to look nice all the time. He didn’t even need to try. Harry, on the other hand, well, that was a different story. No witnesses need a flashback of that time Harry put so much product in his hair that it looked like he hadn’t washed his hair for three months. Zayn laughed for what seems like a century, the sound slowly trailing Harry even a year on.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Harry just sighs in reply to Zayn. “I know.”

Harry always ends up admitting defeat. Another weakness on Harry’s part.

Zayn grins. “Knew you would understand.”

“Have fun at the party?” It comes out more like a question, and Harry has no idea why. His brain is probably too jumbled from excitement, a common occurrence if the truth is to be told.

 “I will.” Another brilliant grin. “You better leave now if you are walking, you won’t get there in time otherwise before it gets too packed. Don’t want to miss it do you?”

Zayn is right again (when is he ever wrong?) so Harry puts his phone in his coat pocket, and his wallet in the other, and slips his keys into the back pocket of his jeans. He gives a quick hug to Zayn (who mumbles _bye you twat_ in his ear), adjusts his scarf and walks quickly out of the door, and breathes out to see his breath evaporate into icy air.

****

Harry stares at the ground, illuminated white under blinding streetlights, and watches his feet create a crunch along the snowy path. The snow wasn’t currently falling, but still looks elegant as it lays on roads and when it delves deeper into conveniently placed drains, daring to be stepped on. Harry does just that, creating patterns from the soles of his shoes. He almost feels guilty for disrupting the snow like this, and ruining its shape like many others have so willingly, but he has to. His lust for the city is too wide for an extended amount of guilt.

He hasn’t been walking for long really, only twenty minutes at the most, and he has nearly reached his destination. He can already hear the murmurs of gathering crowds, and see flashing lights of emergency services drive by to arrive at the location he wants to be at, promoting safety on a night like this.

New Years was always full of drunken idiots, shouting and screaming truthful words, no matter how offensive. This could spur on fights or reckless driving. Alcohol had that power. It was a control mechanism.

Harry doesn’t think too much of it. It is all exciting, the idea of living up to childhood expectations, and Harry’s heart is swimming from the idea, threatening to jump out of his chest.

He passes by shops, most with ‘CLOSED’ signs stuck firmly against the windows, traces of condensation surrounded by bright flashing lights to keep in touch with the aftermath of Christmas but still in place for the holiday season. Harry has to blink quickly when faced with these. He also almost crashes into people walking by him, but just apologises with a polite smile, and carries on his way. It is beautiful really, the view, and expresses of sense of calm and images pasting themselves into his head.

His sister would be jealous, actually, she is already jealous. She always wanted to go to New York, and Harry promised himself that he would take her when he had more money. He takes his phone out of his pocket with numb fingers suited inside thick gloves, and quickly snaps a picture of the world from his perspective and makes a mental note to send it to Gemma later, along with a cheesy caption and unfilled (at the moment, at least) promises.

Harry isn’t an artist in the slightest, too clumsy to draw and mix colours or too cheeky to use photography as more than a hobby, because of weird perceptions of the world, but he does take time to appreciate things around him. He observes less appreciated things for more than five seconds and likes to interact. It made the world seem more interesting, and more exciting.

After a few more minutes of shivers and impending numbness in his toes, he can finally see his destination. He sees the crowds, and huge line, and only smiles through gritted teeth because this is all he has ever wanted to see.

****

To be honest, Harry thought he would be waiting for longer in line, but coming early seems to pay off.  He waits behind a couple of teenage girls, squealing as they hear Ed Sheeran’s ‘Don’t’ fill overhead speakers, and dressed in parkas. To him, a lot of teenage girls look identical when together, in the same coat and leggings. This was more common in England though, a lot more common. He remembers seeing a Tumblr post on it once.

He doesn’t attempt to make conversation at all, but instead he casually moves his head along to the beat with hands behind his back, and silently sings along to the lyrics. There is an older looking couple behind him that are clinging to each other through layers of woollies, hands on waist and arms around shoulders, and making little remarks. He wishes he had that comfort and security, but takes pride in listening to voices instead.

Harry loves hearing the mix of accents, linking with each other to make even the most similar of topics discussed unique. He can hear the occasional stereotypical New York accent, bolding its way to Harry’s ears. But alongside that, he can make out some Texan, and a distant Oklahoma twang, joining next to a Californian cry. If he listened hard enough over the speakers that blare out Ed’s quick lyrics, he could even hear tourist accents, ranging from Scottish to Russian, and Harry enjoys it. He really enjoys it. These people seemed much more exciting compared to his deep bland tone of voice, although Zayn always said people appreciated a bit of a raspy tone in a man. Whatever, doesn’t mean it was true, although Zayn said it so it could be.

Harry also probably looks like a loner ( _thanks a lot Zayn you bloody idiot_ ), standing in the queue on his own, but honestly, it doesn’t really affect him. It gives him more time to observe, and drink up his surroundings.

The lines moves forward quickly, the girls quickly disappearing into the crowd, and Harry is soon at the front. A burly security guard is in front of him beside the gate, wearing a bright yellow vest. Bulky is definitely an underestimation in this case. He looks bored. Harry gives a quick smile, something that is briefly returned with a genuine twinkle in his eyes, before he says “pen 4 for you sir” in a gruff voice.

Harry wonders if anyone ever smiles at the security guard. He doesn’t think to question it.

So, Harry expresses his thanks, moves and follows arrows in the huge surrounding area, full of constant talk through a gathering of people, anonymous under layers, and tries to find and locate his pen. He does, quite quickly if considered for his rambling pace, and doesn’t look like a confused idiot for long. He stands behind other spectators and tries to keep himself to himself like he was before.

****

Harry starts to feel the burn in his legs, making the music harder to listen to, the throbbing almost substituting for an audio track on its own. It’s probably down to the fact that he been standing there for well over an hour, and feels almost tempted to sit down.

 That would be a bad idea of course. No one wants a wet arse and almost guaranteed humiliation when he attempts to and probably falls over. Harry is known for his clumsiness.

He begins to shuffle and attempts to free his limbs of strain, looking like a giraffe moving in the process, his head towering hugely over some of the people in the crowd. Children looked like dots in comparison to him.

Upon doing that action, Harry doesn’t notice his keys sliding out of his jeans pockets. He wouldn’t notice really, he is too concerned about the ache, he carries on shuffling, and he doesn’t hear the keys make impact with the floor. He wouldn’t notice until later, of course, unless it hadn’t been for the tap on his shoulder.

It’s a light tap, almost childlike, and when he feels it Harry turns his head.

“Sorry mate, but you dropped your keys on the floor.” The stranger is holding his keys up in front of Harry’s face, in line with his own layered brown hair peeking out under his beanie. His eyes, factually too blue to be considered average, shine from the lights and the metal of the keys, and Harry feels like he is under a trance.

Harry begins to blush when he realizes he may have been staring for a bit too long, and snaps out of his unjustifiable thought process. “Shit sorry, thanks for that. I didn’t know.” He takes the keys from his fingers, and stuffs them firmly in his pocket, his jacket pocket this time. Zayn would kill him if he lost his keys again. He doesn’t need a reinforced reminder and angry words. Not at all.

The stranger’s eyes widen in shock at the sound of Harry speaking, his lips tugged up slightly at the edges. The stranger doesn’t even attempt to move back to previous spot, wherever that was. “Oh, you’re from England, I’m guessing?”

Harry nods, and his chin hits his scarf slightly. “Yeah, born in Redditch but raised in Cheshire.” He doesn’t know why he chooses to share so much information, but he does. He regrets it straight after.

_Didn’t they teach you in Primary School to not talk to strangers? Seriously Harry you idiot._

“I’m from Doncaster. Pleasure to meet you, my name is Louis. Looks like Lewis, but definitely isn’t” He puts his hand out and Harry shakes it, his glove covered hand touching Louis’s bare one. He tries to not make a big deal of it, a beautiful person shaking his hand. It is not really a daily occurrence for Harry.

“Harry, not to be confused with Harold. Nice to meet you too.”

Louis gives a radiating smile, almost enough to melt the snow if possible, and its captivating. His smile is glorious, and anyone could gain that observation from a few seconds of looking at it. The type of movement to calm a heated argument that has spanned on for centuries, or to give someone enough hope and reassurance for a lifetime. All in one smile. Harry wonders if he will ever come across a smile so magnificent ever again. At this moment in time it seems impossible.

“So Cheshire huh? That’s near the South isn’t it?” Louis questions, eyebrows raised. He looks unsure of his question, like he is wrong. His mouth purses together for a moment, and his cheekbones are so perfectly structured that they could give Zayn a run for his money.

Harry stifles a laugh. “Weren’t very good at Geography was you?”

“I didn’t even want to take it at GCSE. The teachers were probably glad.” Louis sniffs, rather disgustingly at the air, supporting the action of almost choking on the words. He really does not like the subject at all, evidently. Then again, after GCSE’s Harry didn’t either. “So I _was_ wrong?”

“Yeah. It is like up north way, you could get there on the way to Manchester going from the South.”

Louis shuffles along, standing in a small empty space next to Harry, amongst heavy crowds, and turns his head up to look at Harry. The height difference is quite significant really, but then again, Harry is like an overgrown clumsy beast, large feet always stopping things from going to plan. “So, how old are you?”

Louis looks very interested in speaking to Harry judging by his expressions. Harry doesn’t know why. Harry never knows why anything happens. His life is more likely to be a lie whenever something happens. He really is a strange adult.

“I’m 24, twenty five soon.” February to be exact, he adds silently.

“I just turned 26, literally on Christmas Eve.” _And yet he looks so young._ “I know what you are thinking though, that I don’t look my age, but I swear I am 26.” He says it with such conviction, ice biting his tongue, that Harry wonders what he would be like on a jury.

Harry begins to laugh, and Louis shoots a glare, eyes narrowing, but then softening as Harry’s laugh melts into the snow. “I swear I didn’t think that at all.”

“Shut it Harry, or Harold.” Louis peeks at Harry under his eyelashes, and Harry notices the rest of him. He sees Louis’s dark jeans, much like his own, and his hands stuck firmly in the pockets of a denim jacket with fur making an appearance at the top, completed with Vans, checked along the sides.

Louis’s face still looks soft. “You have a lovely laugh.”

Harry freezes, his cheeks surely becoming pinker, and gives a smile, because Louis just complimented him. “Thank you, you have a lovely voice.” It’s true, Louis’s voice is bright metaphorically, entranced and laced with beauty, and not too deep or high. It can’t be criticized at all.  

This time, it is Louis’s turn to blush, and Harry catches it faintly before it is tugged away by the breeze, missing the opportunity to grasp it between his fingers. “Thanks.” It comes out as a mumble, and Louis turns his head so that he is now looking at the floor.  

“So-.” Harry decides to start the conversation this time. “Are you on your own?”

Harry automatically wants to hit himself in the face, because that was such a personal question, and usually he doesn’t do this. He usually doesn’t ask people he has just met if they are on their own. Luckily, Louis doesn’t say anything about it. Harry restrains his hands in his pockets.

Louis gives a small nod, puts head up after a moment of recovery from the compliment, and smiles just a little. “Yeah, friends all going home for the holidays. I cannot do that because lack of money and that. Working as a teaching assistant doesn’t really pay that much. It is to be expected though. Why are you on your own?”

“Friends prefer partying, and it’s quite cold, ‘apparently.” Harry emphasises this, to the best of his ability, by making the action of speech marks with his fingers, and pulling a face. Louis lets out a giggle, cheeks becoming tinted with a natural glow.

“We have one thing in common then. Douche-bag friends who have selfishly forgotten us, and don’t know that it’s like 50 degrees out here. Bastards.” Harry knows he is joking so he lets out a little chuckle. He could listen to Louis curse for a while.  “Mind if I stand with you?”

Harry’s heart quickens under Louis’s words. “Honestly, no. I would love that.”

Harry really doesn’t mind at all, and the ache in his leg has been long forgotten.

****

When Harry was a little bit younger, around the age of puberty to be precise, he knew that he had different views to his friends. While they talked continuously about girls in sexual ways (not all of them, to be clear) he found himself barely listening.

Talk like this didn’t interest him in the slightest.

He knew he liked boys, a realisation that had come to him when he was at a party at 14, when he stared at Aiden the whole night. He spent ages looking at him after that, and admiring his personality and looking at the back of his head in mock exams. It was a bit of a disappointment when Aiden got a girlfriend a little while after. Harry never got to tell him that he liked him.

He wasn’t openly out at that time. He was just surrounded by whispers of speculation, and kept it like that until he finished his exams. But he didn’t pretend to like girls at all. That wouldn’t be keeping true to himself. Instead, he was welcomed by the open arms of his family. He was grateful for that.

His first kiss ever, bonus points for being with a boy, was when he just started university. It was with a boy, Alex to be exact, a year older then Harry whose hair looked unbelievably soft, and his roommate Zayn caught him in the corner locking lips with this older male. Zayn didn’t care though. The next day he told Harry that he was gay himself, and him and Harry bonded over posters of hot males and sharing images found on the internet.

But Harry knew it was wrong to ask others of their sexual orientation, so even though he a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that maybe Louis identified like him, he kept his mouth shut and held hope in there with no chance to escape into the night.

****

Harry has always considered himself to be a good listener. It was one of his skills that was gratefully thought of by others. Everyone appreciates someone to listen to their words, and so Harry made it his mission to be that person, wherever it was a long rant or a quick cry. Harry was just that guy.

It was amazing, really, how much one can learn from listening. Listening gives people a chance to learn, to extend their knowledge and also the chance to convert speech into long term memory, if rehearsed enough, so it can be enjoyed on days when someone’s mind is blank and they want to remember.

This being said, Harry learned precisely a lot of things upon speaking with Louis.

The first thing was his last name was Tomlinson, not the last name of his mother’s current partner. He also had five sisters and one brother, consisting in the mix of two sets of twins. Louis had said that growing up with so many girls around made him protective, where necessary, and that he likes to think he understands the female point of view more than a lot of people might. Harry doesn’t disagree.

Harry replied with talks of his older sister, and what Gemma was doing with her life. It didn’t seem as interesting when Louis spoke though. Louis’s voice made everything seem so heavenly, like angels were controlling him like ventriloquists. Or, that Louis was actually an angel himself in disguise, halo invisible over his head giving him a natural light.

Harry also learns Louis’s love of football, and his childhood ambition to play for a team. Louis also needs at least two cups of tea in the morning to even barely function, and fish finger sandwiches were his favourite especially as his weakness was cooking.

Harry disagrees with that, chicken sandwiches are the best and even better when cut into triangles, and Louis scoffs. _Of course you would think that, you have a mind-set of a child judging by your attitude._

Also, Louis Tomlinson likes drama. Louis really fucking loves drama, actually.

“Why do you like drama then?” Harry had asked, pulling the sleeve of his jacket down while speaking.

“I like it because it literally had given me a chance to explore different sides of the world. Explore different stories that can be so easily missed.” Louis stops for a second, looks Harry directly in the eyes with a big smile, mouth opening like a cartoon characters smile. “Just think about it for a second, there are so many possible stories that can be made in the world. Think of Grease, and the plot being an unexpected romance, twist and turns along the way. The chances of a similar story maybe high, but the exact story would be virtually impossible. Because someone gets to act that out, and remember such an exhilarating experience, they have the chance to open their minds to the world, and the stories, all so unique, they can encounter.”

Harry blinks then, taken aback by his speech. Louis being passionate is so beautiful, so beautiful to even put into words. He struggles to say anything back, nothing could beat that speech and the tone it had took. Nothing at all.

“Sorry, did I ramble?” And Louis looks so fragile and nervous in that moment of time, lip quivering slightly, that Harry feels like he is witnessing an out of this world experience. Could Louis get even prettier? Probably not.

Harry felt that way about singing, oozing with passion and love for it.

“No- honestly you didn’t. It is so great that you have such a love for something like that. It’s really brilliant- yeah.” This time, Harry rambles.

“Do you have a hobby? Or something that you enjoy?” Louis asks.

Harry sighs for a second, unsure if he could show that much passion. “I like singing. I really like it. It makes me feel even more alive, you know? And I don’t think that I am bad at it, just need to work my way up.” It is a brief explanation but Harry has never been good with words.

“That’s brilliant Harry.” Louis replies with a genuine tone to his voice.

“Not really, compared to you doing Drama. Erm yeah-“Harry sputters out. He looks like a child caught in a lie and who is desperate to get himself out of it.

Louis laughs in response, eyes glittering, but then, after time has stopped for a few seconds, he shivers involuntarily. He lifts his hand up, and Harry can see the purple lines that have decided to form in Louis’s pale skin. “My hands are cold.” Louis says blankly, observing the damage.

It is almost like slow motion, the events that take place next. He moves one hand into his pocket, but, to Harry’s surprise, Louis grabs Harry’s hand that that is closest to him, and this makes Harry curl his hand, covered in woolly material, wrap round Louis’s fingers. “Much better, if I say so myself.”

Louis looks at Harry as if to ask his action was acceptable, and Harry gives a nod in response. He tries to hide his joy, to no avail.  

It is much better for the both of them, Harry included, some may say.

****

It’s a bit quieter after that, between the both of them. The talk is limited as they watch the show, voices sailing through the air much louder than anyone else. But Harry is giddy, heart racing and struggling to stay still.

Louis is fucking holding his hand, and Louis, being the main cause behind beauty in Harry’s eyes, isn’t holding anyone else’s. The feeling reaches Harry’s heart, and warms up his blood till it has unfrozen and unleashes numb toes and body parts. Harry feels like he is the luckiest person in the world.

“12 minutes.” Louis voice comes out as a whisper, and Harry nods gently.

Harry thinks.

He thinks over the thudding of his heart under his layers. He knows that hand holding is not the approval of a relationship almost like primary school deemed it to be. His relationship with Nick started off like that though, hand holding and refusal due to embarrassment about speaking to each other. Eventually, the relationship got more intense, more real, and involved pressing random kisses into bare skin and fondness. But Harry didn’t feel a spark, nothing to ignite more passion. It was almost like playing pretend. It was enough to make Harry feel guilty, saying ‘I love you’ between forced teeth, so he ended it. It didn’t end badly though, they were still friends, and saw each other occasionally. He even got a message on Christmas.  Not everything has to end badly.

But being even in five metres of Louis feels different. It feels safe, warm, and entrancing. It is overall protective.

_Louis is different._

Harry tries to shake any thoughts out of his head, and watches ahead, as time goes by quite quickly, and he loses track.  He can see the crowd being eager and excited, looking up to see the ball drop, even if the countdown hasn’t begun yet. Harry doesn’t dare to loosen his grip on Louis’s hand, instead he takes comfort.

He tries to think of questions he can ask Louis.

 _Will we see each other after this? Is this just for company?_ But he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He sees Louis staring ahead with a hint of a smile on his face, almost on his tiptoes. This view is quite lovely as well. He blinks, and just like a camera, captures the moment into his mind, praying that he could stop in this moment for a long time.

“1 minute left!” The speaker shouts, and murmurs are heard, and people are going into close contact with each other, trying to prepare for celebrations together.

Louis leans into Harry’s arm, and Harry has to catch his breath. Louis is so fucking close to him. Harry freezes in his spot, becomes rigid and his free hand is shaking. He tries to remain calm, and tries to remember how to function.

“15 seconds!”

“Mind if I kiss you when the countdown goes to 0?”

Harry is shocked, because he can’t believe that Louis has to even ask.

“I don’t mind at all.” Harry grins, and looks at Louis, who smiles widely in return. It’s beautiful. Louis is beautiful. Life is beautiful.

“10!” The crowd shout loudly, in sync with their surrounding peers.

“9!”

“8!”

“7!” Louis turns to Harry, and vice versa, and everything feels like it is coming together, just like a puzzle piece.

“6!”

“5!”

“4!”

“3!”

“2!”

Harry doesn’t really hear the one being announced. Instead, his focus is somewhere else. He picks Louis up by his waist, feeling the warmth of their two bodies touching, even with lots of clothes on. Louis is light and bouncy and _oh my fucking god_ so pretty. Louis wraps his legs around Harry, arms around his shoulders and reaching his back barely, fingertips digging in slightly.  With a messy attempt, they kiss, bumping noses and giggling into one another. It’s not perfect, but they soon adjust, and with lips on lips moving together brilliantly, they leave each other’s names imbedded deep into their skin.

Fireworks are flashing by their eyes, soaring into the sky with a wide assortment of colours. Camera flashes are being set off, every millisecond and overlapped by others. It is madness. But it doesn’t matter at all.

It is all slow, in a frenzy of celebration and shouts, but it works. Harry gently puts down Louis onto the ground, receiving yet another radiating smile, and tries his best to return it, although it could never be as good as Louis’s and he is pretty sure that his ears have stopped working.

However, Harry sees Louis mouth something along the lines of “Happy new year’s beautiful,” with wide eyes and swollen lips, beanie threatening to fall off and his arms wrapped around Harry’s torso, and Harry knows that everything will be okay.

Another kiss confirms this.

****

It’s not till much later when Harry is finally in bed, wrapped in double blankets and wiggling his toes in socks that reach his knees, when he finally takes a breath. His bed is only a single, and his room is small, but it kind of feels like home, and the lights are turned off because Harry is tired.

His insides have been warmed up, and his head is jumbled, but the smile on his face remains. It would remain for a while, if his emotions had control over his facial movements. It is then that his phone decides to light up on the bedside table. He picks it up skilfully with one hand and the other in his blanket, identifies the contact as Zayn, and so takes the necessary steps in being able to see the full message.

 **Zayn (plus numerous purple hearts):** happy new year mate :) hope it was good off me and niall!! He dropped his phone down the toilet (again) Met a lad called Liam- fit as anything. P.s hope you didn’t lose your keys!! Seriously.

Harry smiles a bit wider, replies with happy New Year and promise of details in the morning (much later in the morning) and locks his phone before putting it back on the table.

It is dark again, and Harry moves his head closer to the pillow, and closes his eyes. He can feel his eyelashes move along with his eyes, and let’s his chest create motion slowly. He goes to sleep, when his mind is relaxed, and his legs have stopped moving, content with the thought of a date on the upcoming Friday and a new contact in his phone.

 

 

 

 


End file.
